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Ha ha ha gotcha!
Ha...ha...ha... gotcha!
The imagined intimated response
linkedin to a swindler's
imagined thought bubble
silently spouting you ain't nothing
but a pluperfect sucker...
rendered penniless suffered
courtesy a financial blow
now left forced to eat crow
forfeiting every last red cent,
plus if applicable escrow
being analogous to an indentured servant
denied luxury and security of nest egg,
hence peace of mind to forego
pipe dreams given the heave-ho
resigned to dig up potatoes in Idaho
for peanuts and forced to panhandle
every now and again summon forth
plucking heartstrings of passersby
playing blues on the banjo
courtesy an anonymous Joe
such tramp winning
the PowerBall bajillion lotto
suddenly thrust into the spotlight
taking back the mean streets
the antithesis of Mister Rogers' neighborhood
videre licet aggressive manifesto,
and especially seeking vengeance
upon head(s) of miscreant swindlers,
who hoodwinked him now
said rags to riches antagonist
able, eager, ready and willing
to purchase quite a residence in Oswego
perched upon mountainous plateau
no longer forced to wander
aimlessly the streets of skid row
instrumental presenting slideshow
glorifying the upside of gentrification
to figuratively rescue
from urban blight undertow
of course with
the current Trump administration
such socially progressive programs
expected to be axed
no questions vis a vis veto.
"What in the name of Sam Hill"
(an early 19th-century American slang phrase,
a minced oath, meaning "What in the hell"
or expressing exasperation, surprise, or irritation)
blurted out time and again
when a heist (courtesy virtual den of thieves)
preys upon pitiful checking and savings accounts
not once, but countless times
necessitating me to change user name and password
(which measures seem minimally effective
to deter cyberpunks to ransack ala electronically
the scant money snatched
right under my figurative nose
not unlike taking candy from a baby
necessitating replacing Citizens Bank debit card,
but in record time unconscionable malfeasance
finds me in a lather
when for the umpteenth time
I experience monetary chicanery
and in a nutshell bemoan
these figurative bloodhounds
on a mission (not very impossible)
to hold a figurative gun to head, and rob me blind
lending heft to the maxim
a (this) fool and his money soon parted
seriously this fake Norwegian bachelor farmer
to end his life once and for all
during the spate of bitterly cold weather
jumping headlong into
the frigid waters of Lake Woebegone
which prompted me to flesh out the above scenario,
which hypothetical scenario I wrote
and posted countless poems and prose
excoriating the villainous misdeeds
perpetrated courtesy twenty first century
mean spirited unceasing continual predators,
whose net impact finds me
to sequester myself as a troglodyte
which nightmare scenario repeated time and again
whereby yours truly continuously targeted
at the unwelcome receiving end
while nonchalantly traversing the webbed wide world
unwittingly being tracked like some animal
oblivious to the cruel trickery
and before escaping the clutches of entrapment
fleeced and left to the fates
to succumb and grovel
amidst the emotional rubble
that formerly housed a coveted nest egg
that got stolen condemning me and the wife
to hand to mouth existence
barely able to maintain meeting the costs of living
though thankful to receive social security disability
as saving grace yet all eyes and ears
being hyper vigilant against depredations
vis a vis with malicious intent to defraud
any unlucky victim caught in the crosshairs
habitually yielding with passivity
versus blocking emails and telephone numbers
and/or simply ceasing to respond
to false promises of instant wealth
which always seems too good to be true
misled by false prophets whose aim
to dangle false profits.
Copyright ©
Matthew Harris
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